Snubbed by gulls

We arrived at Sliammon beach close to low tide, and walked out, almost to the edge. At first glance, it seems barren; stony, with a few rocks, a scattered dusting of seaweed; a flat, empty expanse under a big sky.

Looking northwest.

At closer range, though, we saw that most of the larger stones hold tiny barnacles. Underneath them, periwinkle snails and purple crabs wait out the dry hours. I found a few limpets.

A forward-leaning limpet, with an eroded peak.

Along the sides of a creek bed cutting down into the intertidal zone, where salt water mixes with fresh to lower the salinity, healthy clumps of pickleweed (Salicornia) are growing, bright splashes of green in the stony landscape.

Succulent stems of salicornia make a good salad vegetable. (Recipe)

Far out at the water's edge, a flock of gulls dozed and preened lazily. I had a pocketful of bread for them; not the best diet, but as an occasional treat, it's good and our gulls love it. I walked out towards the flock, but they moved away long before I got there, so I stood, tossing bits of bread into the air.

On the White Rock beach, this would have been enough to get me mobbed by the whole shrieking flock, circling and swooping to grab the bread before it hit the ground. Not here. One gull looked in my direction for a moment, then flew away. I walked a few steps closer, and the whole flock lifted off and moved to the next section of beach. I gave up.

Truly wild gulls, not fond of humans.

A Skywatch post.

"Since the beginning of time"

Just a few turns of the highway north of Powell River, the First Nations village of Sliammon lies strung along the shoreline. The Sliammon (Kla ah men) are a Coast Salish nation whose territory when the white man arrived included sites from Saltery Bay north to Sarah Point, at the gateway to Desolation Sound, with a population of some 20,000 people.

They have inhabited this area for at least two thousand years*, and their middens and village sites are found up and down the coast. (*Their website says

The Kla ah men people have inhabited this region since the beginning of time.

which I think may be a slight exaggeration.)

Sliammon townsite, from its wide beach. The Catholic church in front was rebuilt after it burned down in 1918. The homes are much more recent.

Their history since the coming of the white men has been, like that of so many other aboriginal peoples, a mournful recital of losses, from the first epidemics of European diseases, to the expulsion from many of their home sites, to the persistent and systematic attempts to eradicate their culture and language, leaving them at present with a population of about eight hundred. Only in the last few decades has there been a resurgence of hope and activity; they are now permitted to keep their children at home, to have local schools, to celebrate their cultural heritage, and to direct their own lives as adult Canadians.

In 2009, the "Sliammon First Nation raised a 30 foot totem pole to honor their family and friends that have passed on before us." (Sliammon Treaty Society) As far as I can tell, that would be this one:

It faces out to sea, from just above the high tide line.

The Coast Salish peoples were not major totem pole builders, and I'm not familiar with their symbolism. From bottom to top, I see an unidentified head, two killer whales, a winged turtle with suns carved into the wings, and a majestic, tragic face.

Detail: crying turtle with outstretched wings.

Is he carrying a turtle, or a fish?

Grief and endurance personified.

Purple crabs, pink stones, and periwinkles

On Sliammon beach:

Shore crabs, probably purple, so dark the polka-dots barely show.

Most of the crabs we saw this trip, on several Sunshine Coast shores, were much darker than the shore crabs we find at home. The snails looked about the same.

And I'm still only halfway through Day Two, with more wharf photos, the rest of the Sliammon story and the evening sky to go.